03-14-2021, 10:33 PM
Ryatah
— there's something tragic about you, something so magic about you, don't you agree?
She should have known better.
She should have known when she had that moment’s hesitation going to the mountain when the memory of Carnage killing her had sprung to her mind that she was making a mistake. It was a warning sign, but after a lifetime of ignoring them, she no longer had an intuition to trust. Whatever compass she followed did not match the rest of the world; she had no true north, and a spinning arrow that was impossible to track.
And still, she should have known, because never in the history of her several lives has she ever managed to solve a problem—she only knows how to make them worse.
She could take love and turn it into a nightmare.
She freed a kingdom but not without losing lives, and she tried to find Atrox’s heart and all she got was herself killed—she is nothing but mistakes and failures, and she has always known this.
She went looking for the light in the dark, only to come back a ghost.
When she had been spit onto the beach she had waited for that familiar electric surge of her pulse.
She had waited for the breath to rush back into her lungs, waited for the racing of a once-dead heart.
She has died and been brought back so many times, and she knows what it should feel like.
It never came.
But unlike last time, she is not hesitant to come back to Hyaline. When her chest began to tighten with an intangible panic, when she gasped for a breath that could not reach her lungs, all she could think was getting back to Atrox.
He was the closest thing to north that she has ever had, and the only time her arrow ever steers her straight.
She finds him, and if there is a heartbeat in her chest it is so much slower than it should be. The once golden glow that she has been surrounded by for years now has become muted and pale, with wings that are nearly transparent and a halo that can hardly be seen. But the ache to her dark eyes is vibrant and clear when she finds his bright yellow gaze and holds it and doesn’t let go. “Atrox,” his name is hushed, and her voice feels strange, like fog. There is no substance to her beyond the pain and regret as she comes closer to him, and when she tries to explain what happened she finds that she does not have the words to say it.
She should have known when she had that moment’s hesitation going to the mountain when the memory of Carnage killing her had sprung to her mind that she was making a mistake. It was a warning sign, but after a lifetime of ignoring them, she no longer had an intuition to trust. Whatever compass she followed did not match the rest of the world; she had no true north, and a spinning arrow that was impossible to track.
And still, she should have known, because never in the history of her several lives has she ever managed to solve a problem—she only knows how to make them worse.
She could take love and turn it into a nightmare.
She freed a kingdom but not without losing lives, and she tried to find Atrox’s heart and all she got was herself killed—she is nothing but mistakes and failures, and she has always known this.
She went looking for the light in the dark, only to come back a ghost.
When she had been spit onto the beach she had waited for that familiar electric surge of her pulse.
She had waited for the breath to rush back into her lungs, waited for the racing of a once-dead heart.
She has died and been brought back so many times, and she knows what it should feel like.
It never came.
But unlike last time, she is not hesitant to come back to Hyaline. When her chest began to tighten with an intangible panic, when she gasped for a breath that could not reach her lungs, all she could think was getting back to Atrox.
He was the closest thing to north that she has ever had, and the only time her arrow ever steers her straight.
She finds him, and if there is a heartbeat in her chest it is so much slower than it should be. The once golden glow that she has been surrounded by for years now has become muted and pale, with wings that are nearly transparent and a halo that can hardly be seen. But the ache to her dark eyes is vibrant and clear when she finds his bright yellow gaze and holds it and doesn’t let go. “Atrox,” his name is hushed, and her voice feels strange, like fog. There is no substance to her beyond the pain and regret as she comes closer to him, and when she tries to explain what happened she finds that she does not have the words to say it.
there's something wretched about this, something so precious about this, oh what a sin —